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One day when I was 16, my father brought home the 1987 Guess? calendar, featuring classic black-and-white photos of iconic celebrities. We were already well into the year, but someone at work had given my dad the calendar and he thought I'd appreciate it.
The calendar featured gorgeous shots of Faye Dunaway, Robert Redford, Brigitte Bardot and Robert Mitchum, among others.
Yet, from the very beginning, the photo I chose to display was that of a slightly smirking, 30-something Paul Newman, cigarette dangling from his lips. Even at 16, when my crushes included the likes of Rob Lowe, Robert Downey, Jr. and Morrissey, I could not ignore the magnetic pull of Paul Newman. I don't think I'd seen one of his movies. I couldn't fathom being attracted to someone over the age of 30; someone...you know...OLD.
I just knew he was beautiful. And that particular photo absolutely mesmerized this 16-year-old.
I'll admit, I am sadly unfamiliar with Newman's work as an actor. It was only last year that I saw The Sting for the first time and had the pants charmed right off me by that blue-eyed slice of heaven.
Yet, in spite of my limited exposure to his films, I was always inexplicably crazy about him. And not just because I love Newman's Own. (I've been a fan of the pasta sauce and salad dressing for years but only recently tried the salsa and...HOLY BUTCH CASSIDY...it's the best shit around. I don't care if it's $5 more, knowing the proceeds go mostly to charity, I buy the hell out of that stuff when I can.)
I actually knew little about Newman's Own (or the man himself) prior to devouring this excellent article in last month's Vanity Fair, ever grateful that I had renewed my subscription. Reading this piece, I gained a new respect for Newman's philanthrophy and inimitable sense of humor. And I made the sad realization that he wouldn't be around much longer.
I can thank Newman (or at least his sense of humor) for keeping me on the treadmill 15 minutes longer than usual last Saturday morning, watching MSNBC's retrospective of his life just hours after we learned he had died. I laughed out loud at a 1982 interview Gene Shalit conducted with him in Newman's living room, as the two munched on bread dipped in Newman's Own pasta sauce. Shalit asked what Newman put in the sauce that made it so delicious and, without skipping a beat, Newman answered, "Sulphuric acid."
I rarely, if ever, feel the desire to romanticize or idolize someone I've never met. But I have tremendous admiration for philanthropists, particularly those who find new and creative ways to raise money for people in need. People who do more than just write a check. His celebrated career and marriage notwithstanding, Paul Newman will forever have my admiration for doing what came naturally to him: using his wealth and popularity to provide for people in need. While making kick-ass salsa, to boot.
Posted by ayelet at October 2, 2008 04:32 PM